Selfiish
by thevintagekid
Summary: I don't own either Holmes or Watson sadly . Holmes never realised that his selfish actions would have consequences like this, nor did he think Watson would react like he does. I got bored waiting for the bus so please review and be nice :3
1. Chapter 1

He could not do it anymore. He would not do it anymore. The still form on the bed began to stir after what must have been an eternity of lying still as though an effigy. He glanced at the bruised and scarred underarm of the patient. Why did his patient feel the need to do such a thing? What pleasure was there to be had? He had come from his practice to find his barely living lover crumpled on the floor, too pale and still for his liking, empty glass vial and needle close by. This was the third time he had come home to such a sight; he was determined for it to be his last.

Holmes opened his eyes, blinking at the harsh light let intruding through the window. He felt so drained, so heavy and leaden. Holmes tried to move but it was to no avail; he did not have the strength to do so. Perhaps he had finally done it. Perhaps this was what death felt like. The detective tried to sit up, but found himself being forced back into the pillows by hands he knew so well.

"Oh, no you don't old boy." The owner of the hands held a familiar voice. Holmes tried to remember whose voice it was, but his mind was sluggish. "I wouldn't like you dying on me, would I?"

Oh. So Holmes hadn't succeeded. "Why am I still alive?" he heard himself say.

Of course, he had not meant for the thought to leave his lips, yet it did. Reality slapped him hard across the face, as the owner of the familiar hands and voice revealed itself to be Watson. Watson still wore his over coat, which meant he must have just come in from his practice; his bag lay at his feet. This was just like the previous times. But this time the good doctor wore an expression of defeat and disappointment instead of concern.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you Holmes." Watson's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Do you have nothing worth living for? Do you not care what consequences your stupidity has for those who care?"

The detective wasn't thinking straight. "No." his voice was barely a whisper.

Watson laughed. "Then next time I shall not stop you in your selfish path of self destruction."

Holmes was to slow to react or prevent what happened next. He watched as his Doctor rose and left, shutting the door behind him, his doctor no more.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes watched Watson leave but did not have the strength to stop him; prevent him. When he finally mustered the strength to follow the good doctor his legs did not wish to conform to his will and gave up before the detective could reach the landing. Holmes gave up for the first time in his life, remaining where he had stumbled, silent tears leaving tracks down his cheeks. Now he really wished he had died. He had not meant to hurt Watson, but Watson had hurt him and besides, the detective had been bored. God, how he hated himself at the moment. Sherlock Holmes had never had anyone so dear to him or who cared and he had perhaps just thrown it back in John Watson's face.

"Watson…" the detective cried out feebly. "Please, Watson…"

He got no answer.

Watson regretted leaving the room as soon as he had left it. The doctor took a drag on his cigarette and sighed. His medical instinct nagged at him that his detective was not thinking straight, that a good doctor would have stayed with his patient, but Watson's heart hurt at the detective's words. Why couldn't Holmes see that his actions affected everyone around him, especially his stupid, self-indulgent actions? He needed to learn, and if this was the only way to get him to then so be it. The good doctor stubbed out his cigarette and hugged his coat closer to him. It was getting dark, and he thought it only polite to rescue Mrs Hudson from whatever state and mood the younger man was in.

To his surprise, Watson was not confronted with an outraged or indignant landlady upon his return to his lodgings. Instead he was confronted with only silence. The silence unnerved him; it encouraged his mind to create outrageous scenarios of what might have happened, like finding his detective dead.

"Holmes? Holmes where are you?" the good doctor asked the silence as he ascended the stairs. "Holmes, we need to talk about this. Holmes?"

The detective lifted his head from its resting place on the door frame. Watson had returned, was calling for him. Yet he did not have the strength or will to call back to him, to admit he was wrong. His ego wouldn't permit that. Sherlock Holmes was wrong and his pride wounded; he was not about to beg or admit such a thing to Watson.

"Holmes? What are you doing here, old boy?"

Holmes looked up to see the good doctor stood over him. He could tell that Watson was hurt; he could see it in his eyes. The older man knelt beside the younger, and Holmes shamelessly threw himself at Watson, swallowing his wounded pride.

"Watson, I beg of you. Forgive me, I implore you."


End file.
